


Hearts of Darkness

by navigator_noir (navigatorsghost)



Category: The Shadow (1994)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mind Sex, Telepathy, reverse redemption arc, unrepentant evil, villains enjoying being villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 00:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15674133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navigatorsghost/pseuds/navigator_noir
Summary: A fix-it of sorts. Lamont Cranston was never going to stay a hero, and Shiwan Khan was never going to stay a prisoner. Some time after the end of the movie, they're both back doing what they do best.Contains graphic and eroticised depictions of violence, please be careful if this is not in your comfort zone.





	Hearts of Darkness

The Butcher of Lhasa awakens with a hand over his mouth, and a familiar whisper in his ear. "Ying-Ko!"

His eyes flick open, silver-green in the darkness. The hand withdraws, revealing Ying-Ko's cruel smile. "Shiwan Khan," he replies, equally softly. "Come to find out what I did to your spies?"

"They did not return, so of course I was curious," confirms the figure kneeling on the divan. The chased silver of the Khan's armour catches stray gleams from the moonlight that spills into Ying-Ko's bedchamber; his features are lost in shadow.

"Hm." Ying-Ko sits up, sweeping a long-nailed hand through his ragged hair. "I take it you satisfied your curiosity on the way in?"

"I did." Shiwan Khan's voice holds an edge. As well it might, when the four men he sent to spy on his rival are out there now in the dark with twelve-foot stakes driven through their guts, their blood dripping black in the moonlight, their eyes and palms pierced with iron nails.

"What did you think?" Amused indulgence laces Ying-Ko's question as he turns to smile at his nemesis.

"For a moment," Shiwan Khan breathes, "I truly wanted to kill you." His fist clenches.

"But only for a moment."

A low laugh is the Khan's reply. "If you caught them, Ying-Ko, then they were not good enough." He opens his hand, fingers spread as he concedes the point. "Besides, I have more. Your life is worth ten thousand such as theirs."

"Mmmm." The syllable is drawn out into a purr, and emphasised with a slow, knowing smile. Looking around him, Ying-Ko seems to notice for the first time that the three women he had taken to his bed the night before are sprawled limply around the divan, all of them as unconscious as though drugged.

Which they assuredly are, of course - but even by the standards of the opium fiends who surround the Butcher of Lhasa, these three are far gone. "What did you do to them?" he asks, turning his gleaming eyes on the Khan.

"Nothing that will last beyond the dawn," Shiwan assures him. "I came here to see you, Ying-Ko, not to murder your favourites in cold blood."

"How restrained of you." A low chuckle rasps in the drug lord's throat. "Well, here you see me. Was that all you wanted?"

Their gazes meet, both sheened with power - eyes like moonlit mirrors, silver and dark. Powerful wills touch in silent understanding. Ying-Ko nods, and Shiwan Khan lowers his head in acknowledgement, breaking the communion as he closes his eyes. Gracefully he moves off the divan and to his feet, his leather and lamellar plate creaking quietly as he stands.

Ying-Ko follows him, unarmoured, his muscular body unashamedly exposed. The shadows of the moonlight pool in the creases of his hips, under the hollows of his ribs. He reaches for his great black robe with its embroidered dragons and collar of shaggy fur, slinging it around his shoulders and belting it closed over his bare skin. Without a word, he leads the way to the chamber's open windows and the terrace beyond.

The night outside is warm, the acres of poppies that stretch below Ying-Ko's fortress nodding in the moonlight like a field of white stars. On the terrace there are couches and low tables, fine carpets and a couple of lamps still burning, but Ying-Ko strides past all of them. He climbs easily over the carven rail surrounding the terrace, then leaps down to the slope below.

Shiwan Khan follows him, equally lightfooted on the broken ground of the mountainside. No voice challenges their passing, no guard stirs to block their path. When they reach a shallow slope of rock, hidden from the sight of the fortress and looking out over the mountains and the poppy fields, Ying-Ko pauses, turning to his companion. "Won't you sit?" he invites. He gestures to the bare rock as courteously as though he were proffering a leather armchair in his own study, in another life than this one.

"Hmph." Shiwan Khan smiles, settling himself crosslegged to the ground with a creak of leather; Ying-Ko sits beside him, leaning back and stretching his legs out Western-fashion. His robe is sliding open, baring half his breast, its corners falling to expose the lean muscle of his calves.

"So," Ying-Ko murmurs. "How are things with the Golden Horde?"

"Good," the Khan confirms. "A push here, a strike there. We take back what is ours." He chuckles. "I live for the day when both of us have carved our way so far across China that we meet in the middle."

Ying-Ko's answering laugh is low and throaty. "With a handshake," he asks, "or our swords at each other's throats?"

"Would _you_ be able to resist that battle, Ying-Ko?" White teeth gleam moonlit in Shiwan Khan's smile. "But what of you lately? I heard you defeated the Golden Lotus and took their poppy fields for your own... and is it true that you also took Wang Yi's eldest daughter for your concubine?" He tilts his head.

"Oh, that was her idea." Ying-Ko gestures, playfully self-depreciating. "Wang Mei is an extraordinary young woman. Given that she killed one of my best men just to get my attention, I'm rather grateful that _all_ she wanted was to be allowed into my household." He lets out a muted whistle of admiration.

Shiwan Khan chuckles gleefully and cuffs Ying-Ko's shoulder. "Ah, I knew it! You never disappoint, my friend. With you, whatever the rumour, the truth is always better." He leans back with his weight on his hands, looking up at the bright-black sky, and sighs deeply, happily. "It is such a pleasure to sit down for once with an equal."

"Only an equal?" Ying-Ko's tone is teasing. "I seem to remember you once called me your idol."

The Khan turns a quick, smiling glance upon him. "I did," he concedes, with an abashed dip of his dark lashes. "And in truth, so you still are. You have never lost my admiration, Ying-Ko. I delight in the tales of your deeds, whether I hear them from other lips or your own." If his gaze flickers for a moment to those self-same lips - to the full, sensual curve of Ying-Ko's mouth, now bowed in an indulgent smile at his words - he hides it quickly, though the Butcher laughs softly nonetheless. "Your cunning, your cruelty... your courage. I admire them all."

"Courage?" Ying-Ko says. "This from my enemy who came to my fortress alone and let himself into my bedchamber without turning a hair? Even though he had to walk past the staked corpses of his own men to do it?" He chuckles. "You're selling yourself short if you think I'm the brave one."

Shiwan Khan spreads his hands. "I sit beside you in a khan's mail, with my sword belted at one hip and my daggers at the other, and even though it feels like cheating I confess I have one of your Western pistols strapped to my thigh. But you? You walked out of sight or call of your guards to sit with me in nothing but a silk robe. You have no weapons, Ying-Ko, no armour. You are defenceless, and yet you fear nothing." His voice softens to the merest breath. " _That_ is courage."

Ying-Ko's laughter is husky, low in his throat. "Or maybe I just know you, Shiwan Khan," he murmurs. "You didn't come here to spill my blood. I don't think I need to be afraid of you."

Their eyes meet, and Shiwan Khan's breath catches. Ying-Ko smiles slowly, leaning closer to his rival. His eyes are green as jade, sheened with silver in the moonlight; the Khan's eyes are like black glass as he meets that look, and he makes no attempt to turn away. In the space between them their minds touch, discipline and raw power mingled on either side, teasing at each other's defences.

Shiwan Khan yields first, his wards seeming to melt away under the thrust of Ying-Ko's will, and Ying-Ko follows up in triumph to reach into his enemy's thoughts. _I see I'm still your weakness, Khan of Khans,_ he taunts in a whisper, his telepathic voice echoing in the space between them for their ears alone.

 _I confess it_ , he hears in reply, the words like a caress against the inside of his skull even as Shiwan's eyes half-close in rapture. Ying-Ko curses under his breath, realising that, once again, the Khan's apparent surrender was a feint. When he crossed his own wards to attack, he left an opening, and his better-trained, more subtly gifted rival has used it to slip inside his mind with shameful ease. _So much power, Ying-Ko... but you are careless. If I truly meant you harm, you would regret that._ Shiwan Khan's thought-touch makes an utter lie of the threat, sliding over his nerves like silk and making him grit his teeth to resist a moan.

Nobody else, Ying-Ko thinks. Nobody else has ever been able to do this to him - although if anyone else ever tried, he'd kill them on the spot. _I know you won't hurt me,_ he sends back, pressing his own will against Shiwan's swiftly-renewed defences in a playful show of force. Touching the Khan's mind is like walking through smoke and light, the landscape of his thoughts textured in black and silver and fire, exotic and familiar all at once. _If you ever did, you know we might not do this any more._

 _You would miss it, too._ The reply is blended with a psychic thrust, delicate as a rapier, that slips deep through the layers of focus that give Ying-Ko control - most of the time - over his own worst self. He fails pitifully to put up even the pretence of a block, and Shiwan Khan's touch strikes unerringly to the core of everything that he is, to the heart of darkness that drives the Butcher of Lhasa, that in another land and another lifetime was the corrupted source of the Shadow's power. And this time he does moan, partly at the sensation itself, but more at the ache of being _known_ like this. At having someone see all the way inside him, and seek to change nothing.

 _Ah, Ying-Ko..._ Shiwan breathes his name like a lover, and he shudders in bliss. His enemy caresses the darkness inside him until he's left panting for breath, taut-muscled and trembling, all his wicked memories and cruelest fantasies laid bare to be admired and appreciated to the full. And for a long-drawn, delicious few moments Ying-Ko forgets entirely to even resist, let alone retaliate. Deep down he knows he should be shamed by this, but the truth is that he craves it more than blood or opium.

 _I know who you really are..._ The words have echoed in his head since Shiwan Khan spoke them, staring into his eyes in that hidden chamber beneath the streets of New York. At the time he'd tried not to hear, but that claim, and the promise veiled behind it, had struck him too deeply to turn away from in the end. And now he's grateful that he listened, because it got him this.

Three times, he has encountered another mind with the ability to truly touch his own. The Tulku used that gift as a weapon, and broke him almost beyond recognition. Margo never meant him harm, but her conviction that his better self was his true self had left him hollowed out and wounded, known too intimately for comfort without ever being understood. But Shiwan...

Shiwan had known him even when he barely knew himself, found him when anyone else would have given him up for lost. Ying-Ko knows he will never speak of the debt he owes to the Khan. But if he can repay it like this, sharing his own darkness to indulge Shiwan's lust, letting himself be pulled into this never-ending game of theirs time and time again, then he will - and he, too, takes delight in it, and Shiwan knows that, and the ties that bind them one black heart to the other draw ever tighter.

And Shiwan's thoughts are a delight to dip into in turn, a kaleidoscope of fire and light, rich with the joy of bloodlust and the ecstasy of power. Ying-Ko pulls himself together enough to retaliate, driving his own will into the already wide-open cracks in the Khan's psychic defences, and Shiwan yields to him with a gasp of pleasure.

He thinks he must know most of Shiwan's secrets by now, or even all of them. He doesn't expect to learn anything new from these games any more. But it's always sweet to be reminded of just how much he has, even if for the most part unknowingly, influenced the destiny of one who now holds such power. He sees his own face and his own deeds in so many of Shiwan's most cherished memories; and those are the ones that Shiwan never hesitates to offer to him, to pull him into for a closer look...

_Ah, but you are magnificent, Ying-Ko! Why should you not see yourself like this, reflected in my eyes?_

The words answer a question that he hadn't even finished framing, and Ying-Ko smiles. He realises only now that his eyes have slipped closed in the pleasure of the game; he opens them to find the Khan leaning in close, looking at him with parted lips and dark-gleaming eyes. His mouth quirks in a smile when their eyes meet and he lowers his lashes almost submissively, as though too abashed in the heat of the moment to hold Ying-Ko's gaze.

Not that Ying-Ko would ever underestimate him that much. Submission of any sort is a game Shiwan Khan plays for his own pleasure, nothing more; and shame, even more so. And so it's there that he touches to tease when he caresses Shiwan's thoughts with his own: _Shame on you, Kha Khan. What would your glorious ancestors think, if they could see you giving yourself up like this to a Western barbarian?_

Shiwan's soft laughter is both outside and inside his head, voice and thought at the same time. The image that the Khan shows him in reply is one that makes Ying-Ko's spine tingle with the pleasure of recollection: of himself at the battle of Barga, riding through smoke and fire, clad in steel and soaked in scarlet with his bloodied teeth bared in a wordless yell of triumph. _Temujin himself would have thrilled at your name, Ying-Ko, if he had known you as I do._

He tries not to let himself feel giddy at the compliment, because that _is_ magnificent praise. And the fact that Shiwan says it now, in the unguarded space between them as their minds touch with no defences left standing, makes him believe it - or at least, believe that Shiwan truly thinks it, and that's enough. _I remember,_ he says teasingly, _that you told me grown men still shivered at my name. I didn't realise at the time that you were talking about yourself._

That gets a delighted little laugh from Shiwan. _I admit, I may have been. But there are others in whose ears that name still echoes, I promise you. Come, see for yourself._ And he catches at Ying-Ko's psychic touch, pulling his rival with him, into the depths of secret memory...

Although for a brief moment Ying-Ko isn't wholly sure which of their memories Shiwan has tapped, because the scene he finds himself drawn into is one equally familiar to both of them. The pillared hall of the Temple of the Cobras surrounds him, all carved golden stone and painted walls; a breeze stirs the silken curtains, the incessant rhythm of the drums and bells beating in the distance like some complex, many-chambered heart. _You'd bring us here?_ he asks the Khan, with a shudder of distaste.

 _Watch,_ Shiwan whispers. His mental presence is like a lick of dark fire, an instant antidote to the remembered horrors of this shrine to self-abnegation. Ying-Ko relaxes, leaning in to that soft touch of reassurance, watching.

Two figures walk together into the hall, and at first Ying-Ko thinks he knows only one of them. The sight of the Tulku's smooth, cunning face makes his muscles go taut and his stomach roil with a rush of hatred so intense as to be almost intoxicating. The only thing that grounds him is feeling Shiwan's awareness twine through his, delighted at the fierceness of his response. _Oh, so you do still hate him,_ the Khan murmurs. _Good._

 _Oh, believe me, I hate him_. Ying-Ko would be furious at being reminded of his former teacher's existence, but he feels the shiver of delight that runs through Shiwan at his anger, and he restrains himself just enough to stay in the moment and not spoil this, whatever it may be, for either of them. _What's this about?_

Shiwan only chuckles, nudging his attention back towards the Tulku and the other, barely taller man beside him - and Ying-Ko stops, stunned, because all of a sudden he sees it. Despite the simple Buddhist robes and the youthful features - that look even younger, framed by a shaven head and chin - still, in the young monk who walks at the Tulku's side, he recognises Shiwan Khan.

 _You,_ he breathes.

 _Oh yes._ The Khan is barely containing his glee, his anticipation tugging on Ying-Ko's nerves. _You deserve to see this, Ying-Ko._

His curiosity fired, Ying-Ko leans in to the play of memory and watches, wondering what he is here to witness. The Tulku and his student walk side by side, deep in conversation. Ying-Ko listens, focusing on the two of them, but on Shiwan more. The peaceful disguise of a Buddhist monk sits all too uncomfortably on the young Khan, at least to his eyes. Shiwan must have been biting his tongue so hard that Ying-Ko can almost taste the blood in his mouth.

And then he realises what the two of them are talking about. "Ying-Ko paid the price of his redemption," the Tulku is explaining, "even against what he misguidedly believed was his will, and he was my finest student. You, Shiwan heir of Temujin, you came here of your own will and your own choice, and you heed what is taught to you - you will be greater." He looks long and hard at the younger version of the Khan beside him. "If you do not give way to the darkness that mastered your ancestors."

And that younger Shiwan bows with a dip of his lashes, the same innocent look that Ying-Ko knows too well but never believes. "Yes, Tulku."

 _How did you do that?_ Ying-Ko asks in wonder, of the present-day Shiwan whose thoughts are twined so intimately with his own as they watch this together. _Even I can see what you really were. How could he miss it?_

 _Because I showed him what he wanted to believe,_ Shiwan murmurs. _And because he was still drunk on your blood, Ying-Ko. His triumph over you made him too proud... and he thought I was innocent, compared with you._ His laugh is low and husky. _Maybe I was. I often felt it, then. But... watch._

Ying-Ko watches. The Khan and the Tulku are passing by the Tulku's high seat, and Ying-Ko's attention flicks briefly to the thing that sits beside the throne. The golden Phurba dagger lies in its rest, its eyes closed in whatever approximation of sleep such a creature might indulge in.

The young Shiwan pauses, turns, and bows to his master. "Tulku?"

The Tulku favours him with a benevolent glance. "Yes?"

And Shiwan reaches out his hand, his eyes flashing mirror-black, and Ying-Ko feels the air suddenly sing with the pull of darkness. The Phurba leaps from its place with a viper's hiss of unleashed savagery, flying to Shiwan's grasp. "I am greater," Shiwan breathes, as he flips the weapon over in his hand and throws it with all the force of his will and hate behind it. "Greater than _you._ "

It happens so fast that the golden dagger sinks into the Tulku's heart before any power on earth could have arrested it. The Tulku gasps, and his eyes go wide in shocked dismay. "Shiwan," he chokes out. "No!"

Shiwan's smile is a rictus of bared teeth and triumph, and he steps in - one hand catches the Tulku behind his back in a parody of support, while the other grips the hilt of the Phurba and thrusts it slowly deeper, twisting it. Blood blossoms thick and crimson over the front of the Tulku's robes, and Ying-Ko can hear the dagger snarling in delight at the taste of its former master's life-essence. "I know you'll find another body to be born into," Shiwan Khan hisses, staring into his dying teacher's eyes. "But this is enough. While you're busy remembering how to live, I have time to undo everything you achieved in this lifetime." He dips his head for a moment, a last mocking bow of acknowledgement before he gives a final, vicious twist to the Phurba. " _This is for Ying-Ko!_ "

Ying-Ko... who can barely breathe as he watches this. The look of horror in the Tulku's eyes as the life goes out of them fills him with a rush of vindictive joy, but more exquisite yet is the thrill of hearing his name on Shiwan's lips in that moment, spoken with the same fierce blend of reverence and lust that Shiwan still flavours it with even now. _I had no idea,_ he whispers, caressing Shiwan's thoughts with his own gratitude. _Thank you._

 _I sent him to his death with your name ringing in his ears, Ying-Ko._ Shiwan sighs in pleasure, shivers running through him at Ying-Ko's psychic touch. _Would that I could have killed him slowly for you, but..._ Wryly, he nudges Ying-Ko's attention back to the scene of his memory - to the crowd of monks rushing in from all sides of the temple, called by the Tulku's psychic death-cry, and to his younger self wrenching the Phurba from between the Tulku's cracked ribs and turning joyfully to do battle. _I knew I wasn't going to have time._

 _How did you get the Phurba to turn on him like that?_ Ying-Ko knows his rival's rapport with the golden dagger far exceeds his own, but that was still remarkable.

Shiwan laughs. _The Phurba? Ah, Ying-Ko, that thing has a heart as black as yours. It only ever served the Tulku because he broke its will as he did to so many others. I offered it what it wanted, nothing more._

Ying-Ko nods, slowly, delighted. _Of course,_ he says. _No wonder it was so quick to lick your fingers in New York,_ and Shiwan chuckles at that. Ying-Ko watches the scene for a few moments longer, watching the slaughter Shiwan inflicted on the Tulku's followers, seeing the floor of the Temple of the Cobras grow slick with blood and listening to the screams. It's... cleansing, almost, to witness that.

It's better still to watch it with Shiwan Khan looking on beside him, and to know how much of that bloodshed was done in his name.

 _Interesting point you made,_ he says as Shiwan lets the memory fade away. _About the Tulku reincarnating._ _Do you think he's back yet?_

 _I imagine so,_ Shiwan says, and then he smiles wickedly. _If he is, I think you should have the honour of killing him this time._

And Ying-Ko laughs because _he'd_ been thinking that and it's too delicious to have Shiwan echoing his thoughts like this, encouraging him at every turn, urging him on and deeper into the darkness without a trace of shame or fear. _What about together?_ he offers, and the Khan's eyes shine.

 _I would be honoured,_ he says, and then Ying-Ko feels his attention flicker away for a moment. "Ying-Ko?" he says, out loud, and abruptly they're back on the mountainside, sitting above the poppy fields in the moonlight, and Shiwan's head is tilted as though listening to something Ying-Ko can't hear. "I think your guards have missed you."

Well, that's a disappointing attack of efficiency on their part. "Then I think you'd better be gone before they get this far," he replies playfully. "Unless you still want revenge for those spies of yours, of course."

Shiwan Khan chuckles as he rises to his feet. "No, no. I'll wait until you send some of your own."

Ying-Ko snorts, standing up beside the Khan and turning to offer his hand. Shiwan reaches out and grips it in a warrior's clasp, strong fingers locking over Ying-Ko's and not flinching as Ying-Ko's long nails scratch his knuckles. "Take care, my friend," Shiwan murmurs.

"You too." Ying-Ko smiles as they break apart, and then, deceiving even Ying-Ko's eyes, the Khan is gone into the darkness. How he plans to get down from here without going back through the fortress, Ying-Ko doesn't even trouble himself to wonder.

Instead he returns down the slope towards his own balcony, climbing back into his chamber to find his guards milling in confused alarm. "Ying-Ko!" the leader shouts, catching sight of him. "My lord! Are you all right?"

"What, can't a man go walking in his own poppy fields of a night without causing a panic?" He isn't really angry with them. At least they were doing their jobs. "I couldn't sleep. Nothing more."

"But, my lord, your women... we couldn't wake any of them! We thought-"

"I should hope you couldn't," Ying-Ko retorts, with a lecherous grin that makes the guard blink, change colour and then laugh like he isn't sure he's allowed to. "Now go on, all of you, back to your posts. I appreciate your concern," and he does, which is why he isn't beheading anybody over the interruption, "but I'm fine. Really."

"...Lord Ying-Ko." The leader of the guard swallows and bows to him, and there's a collective scurry for the door.

Ying-Ko casts off his robe, slinging it over his dressing chair, and lets himself fall back onto the bed between his still-slumbering concubines, pulling one of the fox-fur blankets over himself with a sigh. Idly, he wonders what the body count is going to be at the border of his lands when he wakes up tomorrow, and then dismisses the thought. He's willing to sacrifice a few lives for the pleasure of Shiwan Khan's company now and then.

And now he's got something to look forward to, as well. _I hope you remember me, Tulku. You may truly be the only man in history who deserves to die twice._

*

A hundred miles from Kailasa, in an ancient monastery on a bed of golden silks, a young monk sits up wide-eyed, his breath catching in his throat as he startles from sleep. He saw-

"Ying-Ko," he breathes, and feels a chill run through his soul.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I've ever seen a villain-crush to rival Shiwan Khan's on Ying-Ko, and I couldn't bear to just leave things between them the way the movie did. For those who want to know how Shiwan got his powers back after the movie... well, the human brain is very, very adaptable, so I'm putting it down to a combination of neuroplasticity and magic.


End file.
